


Parallel Conversations

by auberus, Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Category: Burn Notice, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Don’t copy to another site, GFY, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-23 00:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17673218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auberus/pseuds/auberus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: Hermione & Michael, worlds and conversations in parallel.





	Parallel Conversations

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd and unedited.

Most people don't like Russian winters, but Michael does. After growing up in Miami, he appreciates the fact that Moscow has seasons - has snow and ice, both of which he'd thought of as exotic when he was younger, and still is secretly thrilled by. He doesn't even mind that he'd had to wait half an hour in the falling snow for Andrei, no last name given, the man who'd claimed he could get his hands on a nuclear weapon - or that the meeting is apparently going to be conducted while walking through yet more snow.

"When can I expect delivery?" he asks, following Andrei into an alley between two large apartment buildings, remnants of Stalin's regime. He's just a few steps too far in before he realizes that it's a trap.

Hermione's been enjoying Moscow, quietly drifting about the city, sometimes looking at the sights like a normal tourist, sometimes just walking random streets until she's completely lost, and then finding her way back to the hotel she's staying at. Few people actually pay too much attention to her, even without any spells to misdirect or disguise her, and it's nice to be ignored, as she isn't ignored at home.

She's walking today, hands in her pockets as she tilts her head slightly up into the falling snow. Simply enjoying the quiet, when she catches movement out of the corner of her eye that doesn't seem to fit. Turning to look, she sees a couple large men stepping into an alley, that remind her of Crabbe and Goyle, and frowns. It's a few more steps before she can see down the alley itself, and see their intended victim.

He's a good looking man, though something about him seems off. She's not sure what, but it's enough for her to touch her wand, murmuring a spell to direct attention away from her as she drifts across the street, stopping at the mouth of the alley. Watching, and waiting to see what's going on before she bothers to get involved.

"Andrei," Michael says warningly, pulling his pistol, "you don't want to do this." He aims his gun at Andrei's head, and the Russian returns the favor. The two men who make up the rest of the trap follow suit.

"Give me the money, and no one has to die here." Andrei sounds very persuasive, but Michael knows better.

"I don't have it on me," he says. "I don't carry that much cash."

"Pity," Andrei says, and pulls the trigger. Michael tries to knock his hand as he shoots, but he knows it's too late - and then the bullet clatters to the floor harmlessly as Michael pulls his own trigger and sends Andrei after it. He ducks behind a stack of crates, breathing hard. Every time he gets into this sort of situation, he worries that his little tricks will have stopped working as unexpectedly as they'd started.

Hermione winces when the guns go off, her eyes widening a moment when the one bullet tumbles to the ground instead of drilling into the intended victim's skull. What was a wizard doing out here, having a shoot-out with Muggles? She hesitates only for a brief moment before she brings her wand up, two stunners sent after the men whose backs are to her in quick succession. They drop like stones, reminding her even more of Crabbe and Goyle as she moves forward.

"Are you all right?" she asks after dropping the mis-direction spell. A faint frown of worry on her face. "That bullet came awfully close to hitting you."

Michael lowers his gun and glances around his crates. The other two men are down, and he hadn't heard a thing.

"Who are you?" he asks. "MI 6? You're good." He doesn't want to talk about his miraculous escape, not when he's not sure how it happened in the first place.

Letting out a brief laugh, Hermione shook her head. His question is unexpected in a wizard. "Oh, no, I don't even work for the Ministry, much less any other part of the British government. I'm actually unemployed at the moment, but I'm not too worried about that." She offers him a hand, a smile still on her face. "Hermione Granger."

"Michael." He takes her hand, putting his gun away. Despite her claim to be a civilian, he doesn't quite believe her, but he won't press her. It's bad manners, especially since she saved his life.

 "Civilian or not, thanks for the assist." Michael smiles at her. "I'm not a fan of two to one odds."

"I can imagine not, though they're certainly not to the worst odds." She shrugs one shoulder, and nods to the street. "I haven't actually gotten myself lost yet, and my hotel's a few blocks away, if you don't have some place to stay of your own. Or if you need someplace different to stay."

She knows it sounds awfully trusting to offer that much to a stranger, but she's well aware of her abilities, and how lightly she sleeps these days.

Staying somewhere else is probably a good idea, at least until Michael finds out whether or not Andrei's FSB buddies know to come looking for him. On the other hand, this could very well be a trap. Instinct says it isn't, though, so after a moment he nods.

"Thanks. Andrei here was FSB, and I'd rather not end my days in a Russian prison."

It takes Hermione a second longer than she likes to place the acronym, and it makes her curious all over again what a wizard is doing involved in Muggle affairs so deeply. If, she's beginning to wonder, he knows he's a wizard at all. His accent suggests he's American, and she isn't actually familiar with their education system. It's possible he slipped through the cracks, if he's Muggle-born like she is.

"It wouldn't be the worst place to end up, but I can't imagine it would be all that much fun." Hermione offers her hand to him to hold, thinking on her feet about ways to make it less likely anyone will notice them. "Would it be rude to ask how you ended up involved with Russian intelligence? And telling me I don't need to know is an answer I'm used to, so if I'm not to know, just tell me that."

"Andrei wasn't here in any official capacity." Michael shrugs. "The chaos left behind when the Soviet Union fell has encouraged his type to try to profit off of it. I do what I can to keep that from happening." Among other things.

"Ah." Hermione nods in understanding, though she had been rather more focused on the fact she was a witch, and going to Hogwarts around the time the Soviet Union actually fell apart. "It's good to have people who do that." She shoves her hands back in her pockets after a moment, leading the way toward her hotel.

Michael smiles. "It's certainly better than letting what's left of the KGB sell off the Soviet nuclear arsenal." Despite himself, and Hermione's questions - which are too naive for the training she has to have had - he's starting to relax a little. She hasn't pressed him about the trick with the bullet, and his gut tells him she means him no harm. "Who did you train with?" he asks, taking adventage of the tradition of quid pro quo between spies whose governments are friendly.

Hermione shoots him a quizzical look a moment before answering. Trying to figure out what he means by training, and deciding in the end, he means the training that had gotten her through the war in one piece. It's the only thing she'd call training, rather than classes, in part because it was one-on-one, and no one else was entirely aware of just how much she'd learned from either of her mentors.

"Snape and Moody, though neither of them survived past the final engagement with Voldemort." She presses her lips together, hoping that he's at least aware enough of that fight, though it was almost exclusively British. It did, after all, have some impact on the wider wizard world.

Like any spy, Michael hates the idea of not knowing something that, from the sound of Hermione's voice, is common knowledge. Of course, being a spy, he can't simply ask to be filled in.

"I'm afraid that I don't know the British intelligence well enough to be familiar with individual instructors. I meant which agency."

"I don't work for the government," Hermione reminded him gently, shrugging. "For a while, I worked for a private concern, when the Ministry was subverted, but there isn't currently anything that requires attention, so I'm at loose ends." She's beginning to wonder if he's aware at all of current events in the wizarding world, or if his work for Muggles takes up too much of his time to keep informed.

"But you've had training," Michael says confidently. "Real training. Amateurs - foreign ones, anyway - don't go armed in Russia, especially with silenced weapons. Nor do they take down two armed opponents who are twice their size." Besides, she moves like a veteran, keeping an eye on everything at once, and paying extra attention to places that offer concealment.

That he thinks she's carrying some sort of gun amuses Hermione, and she lets a bit of a smile cross her face. Perhaps he's been involved enough in his Muggle occupation that he hasn't even thought about someone having a wand. "Well, yes. Moody always stressed constant vigilance, and Snape... well, it's only really bad luck, and possibly the scheming of our former employer that got him killed. I've never met anyone quite as good at he was." Though not, strictly, for any sort of altruistic reasons, she's certain.

"They certainly trained you well," Michael tells her. "That was as neat a takedown as any I've seen, even if I didn't actually see it. What type of silencer are you using? I didn't hear a thing. I don't think I've ever heard one that quiet."

"I don't use a gun." Hermione doesn't take her wand out of the sheath where it lies against her arm, barely needing to shift her hand to touch it. She'd had to pull it out to be able to cast the stunners, but it had been returned to its place immediately after. "They're too noisy and inefficient for my usual work." And the clean-up afterward was more than she cared to deal with. A stunner and memory modification usually is enough, and when it isn't, there are cleaner, quieter ways to kill.

"No gun?" Michael raises an eyebrow. "What, then? A blow gun and poison darts?" He'd have heard a tazer, and gas would have gotten him, too. "I don't care if you got hand to hand from the Mossad - there's no way you took down Andrei's guys without some kind of projectile weapon."

Hermione arches an eyebrow. "Oh?" Magic will take anyone down, if the right spell is used, and she knows few spells make an audible noise to alert their enemy it's on the way. A few cause a temporary glow, or a dull light to be seen on impact, but the ones she favors are invisible as well as silent. "Why would I require a projectile?"

"Why -" Michael shakes his head. "Look, I'm combat-rated with pretty much everything that people make to hurt others with. Unless the British have invented a way to kill people with their minds?" He can't help smiling at the ridiculous thought. "You're not big enough to have taken them in close quarters, and certainly not so quietly."

"They're just thugs. Not actually all that difficult, and like all thugs, they underestimate those smaller than they are, especially when that person is female." Hermione snorts, her contempt clear for the sort of men the pair she'd stunned were. She slides a sideways look at Michael, a smile curling her lips again. It wasn't all that far off, his guess that she could have killed them with her mind. If she'd had the mind to leave them bleeding out, or she could have summoned up the hatred to cast the Killing Curse. Neither option, though, is one she'd really like to explore, both far messier than she prefers.

"I couldn't have taken them so quietly," Michael says bluntly. "Not from close up." He doesn't bother to add that since he couldn't have, there's no way she could have done it. "*Is* it a new weapon?"

"Not new, but I wouldn't call it common knowledge, either." Not outside the wizarding world, at least. And she's almost certain Michael's been out of the wizarding world for far too long, if he ever really had the chance to be part of it. The way the bullet stopped had to be magic, but it didn't have to be formally trained magic. "And don't make the mistake of underestimating someone simply because you don't understand how they did something you've not been trained to do."

"If I were in the habit of making that kind of mistake, I would have gotten killed a long time ago," Michael points out. "Two of the three most dangerous people I know are women, and neither of them is even as tall as you." He offers up his most charming smile, the one he uses to get people to betray their countries. "I'd love to know how you did it." Flirting with her is a pleasure, as well as a useful technique. Spies are not taught to be modest, and Michael knows just how good looking he is - and how to pretend that he doesn't. "It might save my life someday - unless you'd like a job is a bodyguard."

"That depends on how much you're paying me to be a bodyguard," Hermione replies easily, not immune to his smile. "It wouldn't hurt to have a job again, to bring in a little extra spending money." She's made good use of the money she inherited when Harry didn't survive the final battle, keeping it carefully invested so she wouldn't need a job for the money, merely to keep herself from becoming bored.

"Much as I'd like to actually hire you, I don't really have that option. I'd have a hard time explaining your presence whenever I most needed it. Besides, I'm on a government salary, and putting you on my expense reports wouldn't go over well." He shrugs, still smiling faintly. "I'll have to settle for lessons, instead."

Hermione tilts her head, studying him a moment before she smiles and chuckles softly. "I doubt you'd have to explain anything to anyone, save the expense. I'm really very good at not being noticed when I don't want to be." And she's been getting better at disguises, even since the war. There are times when she doesn't want to be seen as herself.

"The expense accounts are my biggest concern," Michael admits. "You wouldn't believe the paperwork I have to do during debriefs." He lets the subject of the takedown drop for now, as she's been polite enough not to pry into his own secrets.

"Oh, I don't know about that." Hermione smiles, before shrugging. "But paperwork is always a headache, even when you can automate it." Paperwork and essays and research are all made easier when she can dictate to a quill rather than having to set her own hand to parchment. And since it writes in her own neat, small hand, there really isn't much difference between dictation and writing it herself. Save the lack of cramps in her hands.

"Automate?" Michael knows the word, but not in the sense in which she's using it. It's another curiosity, from a girl who's already full of mysteries. For the moment, she's far more interesting than any of the people he's hunting.

"Do you still fill out all your paperwork by hand?" Hermione looks over at him with a sympathetic expression. "I haven't had to do that for years now." Not since she bought herself a Dictoquill, and put it to good use. Bought more than one, as she goes through them faster than they're designed for sometimes.

"Some of the really sensitive stuff, yes," Michael says. "Mostly, though, it's all done on the computer, which is bad enough. All of it probably will be, sooner or later." He shrugs again. "I'd just rather be in the field. Had I wanted to work at a desk..." He trails off, and smiles ruefully. "I've always hated sitting still."

"I had a couple friends like that." Hermione's voice is quiet, the dull ache of losing Harry and Ron less than it's been in the past, but still present. She's mostly managed to stop mourning for the loss of what they had, though the thought of what could have been still has the power to take her breath away sometimes.

Michael doesn't ask about her use of the past tense. He's lost enough friends of his own to recognize her tone of voice, and the look on her face.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. There's really nothing else he *can* say.

"Thank you." It's a moment before Hermione is able to give Michael a faint smile again, tilting her head toward the cross street her hotel is on. "My hotel's just down this street." With an interior larger than the small facade would suggest, looking for all the world like some shop front with a sign that perpetually said closed on it to Muggle eyes. The lights of the lobby weren't visible from the outside, the windows nothing more than a very convincing illusion over stone walls.

Back in the bad old Soviet days, a foreigner staying in a hotel in which he wasn't registered would have set the KGB into immediate motion. Now, Michael doubts anyone will notice - and he knows they won't care.

"Thanks again," he says. "I'd rather not be where I'm supposed to be, just in case Andrei set up some insurance for himself."

"You're welcome. It's the least I can do." For another wizard in trouble, and - as she's come to the conclusion - without a wand. Hermione pushes open the door to the hotel, nodding to the witch at the front desk in greeting. The gentle light from the candles in wall scones is something she'll always appreciate about the wizarding world, even though it's not actually as useful when she wants to study something closely. But that's what lumos is for. Or specially conjured flames with precise light properties - something she's been working on perfecting for the last few years.

"I'm up on the third floor," she says quietly as she heads for the stairs. There's no lift here, and the stairs are static, so they actually have to walk up to the room, but she doesn't expect that's really a problem.

There's something off about the hotel, and it isn't just that the decor isn't done in the usual Soviet Grim. It takes a few seconds - an embarrassingly long time for Michael to figure out why. The lack of any visible source of fuel for the wall lamps is the most obvious oddity, but now that he's looking closely, he's starting to notice others. He keeps his face blank only because of the years of practice he's put in to controlling his reactions, and follows after Hermione, his fingers itching for a gun.

"What the hell is this place?" he asks quietly.

"A wizarding hotel." Hermione touches her wand, silently casting a sheilding spell over herself in case Michael gets a particularly itchy trigger finger. A precaution that's part ingrained paranoia. "Unless your contact has wizarding friends, none of his potential insurance is capable of locating you here."

That he's even asking is evidence for him being a Muggle-born who slipped through the cracks, and really, that someone capable enough of magic to prevent himself from being shot managed to escape any sort of magical education is something she doesn't understand. Though at least she's pretty certain it's not her own country that fell down on the job.

"Excuse me?" Michael's not entirely sure he'd heard her correctly. She's seemed sane enough so far, though, and the lights are beyond any explaination he can come up with. "Did you say -" He stops, unable to actually say it.

"Magic is real." Hermione's voice has a slightly more clipped quality to it, her annoyance at the ability of the US wizarding world to allow someone to go without knowing of magic and the wizarding world bleeding through. She only hopes it's not a deliberate thing because Michael's likely Muggle-born. If it is, she thinks she might have found something to keep her occupied.

"This hotel is a wizarding hotel, not accessible by those not in possession of at least a spark of magic. They barely even look twice at it, and you would have kept walking at least a few steps before you realized I wasn't with you if you weren't capable of doing magic yourself."

She goes down the hall her room is on, tapping her wand on the lock to open the door, holding it open for Michael to step into the room as well. "I don't know how or why you managed to be overlooked for an education in the wizarding world, and I can only hope it's incompetence on the part of someone in the US wizarding world, and not malice."

Spies who can't handle unexpected information don't generally last very long, but even so, this is a bit much to take in. Although...it does make sense of some of the things he's been able to do.

Still, he can't help asking, "Are you sure?"

Hermione gives him a long look as she closes the door, before sighing, and nodding. "You stopped bullets with a thought. Shielding without training, which is really quite surprising, but not entirely unexpected, considering the line of work you appear to be engaged in."

After a moment, she drops the shield she'd put up around herself, and settles into one of the comfortable chairs next to the fireplace that every room boasted. "Would you like some tea?"

"Please," Michael says automatically. He shakes his head. "Magic. I've always thought it was ESP, or something similar."

Slipping her wand out of her sleeve, Hermione summoned the tea service, conjuring the boiling water to cascade over the leaves in the pot for once, preferring to not have to wait the extra few minutes for the water to boil. "ESP doesn't have the range that magic does - if it existed, that is - although there are some magical talents and skills which could be passed off as such."

She waves a hand at the other chair. "Please, sit down."

Michael watches her make tea, fascinated. "I've been running black ops since I was nineteen," he says after a moment, "and that's definitely the strangest thing I've ever seen. Is that a *magic wand*?"

"It's my wand, yes." Hermione smiles with amusement, settling back in the comfort of her chair, tucking her wand back in her sleeve. "All wizards have one. At least, those who haven't had theirs broken due to criminal behavior that warrants such. And they're still capable of obtaining another, if they go to the right wand-maker."

She pauses before adding, "The wand chooses the wizard, and using a wand that's not suited to the individual can have complications that range from difficulty in casting spells to having spells backfire and cause injury to the wielder."

"Then if I'm a wizard, why don't I have one?" Michael asks. "Or do I not need one? I've gotten along without one so far and I seem to be doing fine." He's survived, anyway, and for a spy, that's what counts. "It's not like today is the first time I've done something like that."

He'd been ten the first time. Nate had been deathly ill, burning with fever, and their dad had been AWOL, on one of his drinking binges. His mom had been almost hysterical with rage and fear, and he'd gone out to find them a car, not much caring how he did it. He'd been able to get inside one, but hot wiring it had been beyond him. He'd been shaking from nerves, and out of fear for Nate, and just when he'd thought he would explode with terror, the car had roared impossibly to life.

The memory still carries emotion with it, makes his muscles tighten with remembered tension. There are reasons he doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about Miami.

"It makes it far easier to control your magic if you have a wand to channel it through. What you've been doing is generally called wild magic, and it has the potential to be dangerous for an untrained wizard. That you've managed it this long is a good sign that you have some control over it, if not nearly at the level of fine control you should have been trained to."

Hermione really would like to get her hands on whoever had missed Michael, but for the moment, she'll settle for getting him a decent wand, and teaching him better control than he currently has. Teaching him what he should have been taught *years* ago.

"I know where the wizarding shops are, and I'll take you there tomorrow. Although I'm going to have to modify your clothing a bit - your current attire would stand out as Muggle, and as you're certainly not a child, that will make you memorable." Something she doubts Michael would like to be.

"Unless you can speak Russian, we're going to be memorable anyway. Foreigners attract attention here - it's a hold over from the Soviet days." It's also one of the reasons that Michael had been forced to give up his suits temporarily. Spies who attract the wrong kind of attention have very short life expectancies.

Tilting his head slightly to one side, Michael looks curiously at Hermione. "Why are you doing this?" he asks. "Why help me back in that alley, or offer me shelter?" He smiles at her, letting just a hint of the appreciation she inspires show in his eyes. She's brave, smart, and beautiful, and he'd have to have been three days dead not to have noticed, so the look is as genuine as it is deliberate. "Not that I'm not grateful - I'm just curious. It's an occupational hazard, I'm afraid."

She's quiet for a long moment, pouring tea into the cups, and taking a sip before she answers. "I saw the thugs going into the alley, and I was curious. I tend to be the sort who runs toward danger rather than away, you understand. When I saw you were a wizard - not being hit at pretty much point blank range made it rather clear you had magic - I couldn't simply walk away. Especially as it didn't appear you had a wand, and you were dressed as a Muggle.

"Beyond that. I don't know yet. You remind me of a number of people I've lost, but that's not, I think, even the most of it." Hermione studies Michael a moment. "Right now, I think I'd enjoy the challenge of teaching you how to use a wand, and to work magic more formally and extensively than you currently do."

She really isn't entirely certain what's driving her, other than a combination of determination, a simmering anger on his behalf, and an intense craving for a proper challenge that she hasn't felt since Voldemort fell, and took too many of those she loved with him. And perhaps that's enough of a reason to do this.

Michael nods. The look in her eyes is the same one he sees in the mirror from time to time, when he's feeling burnt out after a mission that went badly wrong.

"Good enough for me." Deliberately keeping his tone light, he adds, "If you want, I'll give you a crash course in espionage in exchange."

Lessons that would be useful for many things, beyond working to spy for any one government. Lessons that might have been useful before Voldemort, to have kept Harry and Ron alive along with herself.

"Done," she says before she can start enumerating reasons it *wouldn't* be a good idea to take the offer. "And we probably should begin with a bit of modification of your clothing, and then buy you a wand. Tonight." Because sooner or later, the fact she stunned a pair of Muggles is going to become a problem, and she really wishes she'd thought of that sooner.

"Wands are that important?" Michael asks, then shrugs. "We'll do it your way. You're the expert." He looks distastefully down at his clothing, which he'd bought deliberately to be ill fitting and badly cut - it's a type of camoflauge here. "Besides, I'd be more than happy to do something about these clothes." He misses his Armani, and his sunglasses. He can't help being displeased by having to appear at less than his best in front of anyone, much less someone as attractive as Hermione.

Hermione smiles, and shrugs one shoulder a little. "A wand is the most important part of a wizard's arsenal after the mind." She takes another look at his clothing, chewing on her lip a little as she contemplates the best route to go with dressing him. And, for that matter, dressing herself for a trip into one of the parts of the Russian wizarding world where she's going to be more visible. And since she can't speak Russian, just how visible she wants to play it.

"I'm going to regret this later," she mutters to herself, before pushing out of her chair, going to where her purse - the same bottomless one she'd stored a tent in once - is waiting on the bedside table. Aiming her wand inside, and muttering an accio, summoning dress robes of her own, and the dress robes she'd never returned to Ron. They're a decent base for what she has in mind, and she lays out Ron's robes on the bed first.

It takes several minutes of concentrated work to make the alterations to the robes to at least come close to fitting Michael, and to make them look more akin to the sort of robes that would be worn by a man with the wealth of Malfoy. She'll have to buy Michael more robes, but that's better done in Diagon Alley, where she can trust Madame Malkin to keep her mouth shut about anyone Hermione brings to purchase robes.

"Try those on, and I'll finish the last touches to make them look tailored for you." It's mostly simple spells she'd learned in order to keep her clothing in repair while on the run, but adapting them to actually tailor clothing isn't tremendously difficult.

Her own dress robes will be simpler - make the cut more conservative, the decoration more understated, and the colors darker and richer. Quiet wealth that screams of old money and old blood.

"Do all wizards dress like this?" Michael asks, eyebrows lifting. "And if they - we - do, why hasn't anyone noticed us?" The robes aren't exactly inconspicuous. "And - what do I wear under them?"

"Because it's not what's worn to interact with Muggles, and most who dress in fashions such as these tend not to interact with Muggles." Hermione waves a hand to the door to the bathroom after laying out her own dress robes on the bed. "You can change in there; it won't take me too long to finish the alterations on my own robes to suit the image I have in mind. And trust me, while they might notice the robes, they won't remember faces." Especially with a generous expendeture of money in a few shops along the road - wand, some books, some jewelry. Possibly eating dinner in one of the restaurants there. She has to make it look good.

"I'm familiar with the concept," Michael smiles as he speaks, to take any inadvertant sting out of his words. "Actually, it's one of my specialties." He scoops up the robes and heads into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly cracked out of what some would call paranoia. Michael thinks of it as professionalism.

He strips down quickly, making a neat pile of his own clothing and another of his weapons. The robes are easy enough to put on, and though they don't fit as well as he'd like they're a hundred times better than the clothes he's just taken off. They also make weapons concealment that much easier.

Dressing quickly once her robes are altered, Hermione steps over to the mirror on the vanity that was provided with her room, studying her reflection critically a moment before making a slight change in the fit of her robes, being very careful with the spells since she's wearing the clothing she's altering. All she has left to do is her hair, makeup, and transfigure a ring. Because it's easier to use props and clothing to give the impression she wishes to make, rather than risk a disguising spell being noticed and unraveled.

"I'm decent, once you're ready." Hermione will worry about the finishing touches on herself once she's certain the robes are right on Michael.

Pretending to be someone else is about more than just a change of clothing. It's posture, accent, accessories and attitude, down to the way you do your hair. Michael doesn't know the details of the person he's supposed to be, but he has enough of an idea that when he steps out of the bathroom he's already halfway into character. He's taken the opportunity to shave, and his hair is carefully brushed back from his face. The robes remind him of the Middle East, despite the difference in cut, and he says as much.

"Do you have something in mind to keep us from sticking out like sore thumbs on the street?" he asks, looking at himself in the mirror. He looks... right, somehow. "The FSB isn't what the KGB used to be, but in these, it won't really matter."

"We won't be on the street." Hermione knows where the wizarding high street is well enough to Apparate, and even though Michael isn't capable of doing so, she's good enough to take him side-along. "There are ways of traveling that won't require going through the Muggle world."

She studies Michael a moment, and then makes the last, careful adjustments to make the robes look expensively tailored. "We're a wealthy, pure-blood couple, and they wouldn't sully themselves by interacting with Muggles, much less foreign ones. I assume you're capable of mimicking received pronunciation well enough to pass for British?" she asks with a brief smile to keep the sting from the words.

"I think I can manage," Michael assures her, demonstrating. "I can even adjust my Russian so that it sounds British - that is, if my alter ego speaks Russian?" There are advantages to either option, and disadvantages as well. "Though it might be best if I can only say a few key phrases. People tend to speak more freely when they think they can't be understood, and to pay attention to foreigners who speak their language." He turns back to the mirror, posture shifting from military-straight to a subtly stiff-necked arrogance, chin lifting slightly.

"Well? Do I pass inspection?" he asks, allowing himself a genuine smile. Then he gets a good look at Hermione, and his eyebrows lift again. "You certainly do." She wears her robes with utter confidence, and their elegance emphasizes her own.

"You certainly do." Hermione smiles a moment before drawing on the cool haughtiness that is her adaptation of the attitudes she'd seen in the Malfoys before the return of Voldemort and their fall from grace. The assurance of a woman who knows her worth is more than anyone around her, and the subtle pride of having what many covet.

"Most pure bloods would learn languages that are suited to the alliances their family intends for them to make. In this case, there would be no need, as neither you nor I would have family in Russia. A few key phrases, perhaps, but we'll expect the shop keepers to speak English well enough to understand us."

"In that case, I believe we're ready to go." He offers her his arm. "Do we need to stop somewhere so that I can pick up some money, or will the shops take a credit card?" Accessing his accounts will be risky, but he needs to chance it.

"Credit cards are a Muggle invention, and as such, regarded with suspicion at best; outright derision and contempt are more common among pure bloods of our sort." Hermione picks up her purse after transfiguring the outside to better fit her outfit. "I have enough money to cover anything we'll purchase here, so don't worry about that until later."

Before taking his arm, she makes sure she has everything of hers stowed in her bag again, along with Michael's shed Muggle clothing. A scourgify makes sure that anything that might be useful to track them or mimic their appearance is destroyed, and she repeats the procedure in the main room.

Then takes Michael's arm, and murmurs, "Hold on, and whatever you do, don't throw up when we land." Turning in place, she pulls Michael along with her, Apparating to Moscow's wizarding high street, the decor of the shops and the clothing of the wizards around them more reminiscent of Tsarist Russia than the modern Muggle world.

Hermione's method of travel is disorienting, but not as much so as doing night jumps out of an airplane.  Still, Michael has to shake his head to clear the worst of the dizziness.

His first instinct, once he gets a good look at his surroundings, is to stare at everything - but his cover wouldn't.  Instead, he simply glances around, as any tourist would do, keeping his expression suitably haughty.

With a faint smirk, Hermione glances at the high street, before drawing Michael down toward the wand-maker, though she doesn't hurry. Strolling along, glancing every so often at a display of jewelry or into the window of a book store, is a far better way to avoid drawing the wrong sort of attention. It's still a relief to get to the wand shop, and to close the door behind her.

The shop is quiet, and looks deserted at first glance, though Hermione knows that's not the case. If the wand-maker weren't here, the door would have been locked, after all. After a moment, indeed, the wand-maker comes out, a slim man who looks barely older than Snape had been at the end of the war. He peers at them with a faint frown a moment before he speaks.

"Lost your wand, have you, then?" He looks straight at Michael when he asks the question, waving a hand to forstall any answer. "I'll see what I may have that will suit you, just let me get your measurements." The familiar sight of a mostly self-animated measuring tape almost makes Hermione smile, though only the very faintest of curves tilts the corners of her lips as it starts to take all sorts of measurements of Michael.

Michael limits his reaction to a quick glance at Hermione, and a slight tightening of his jaw.  Instinct is telling him that while this entire thing is strange enough to be one of Sam's drinking stories, he isn't in any immediate danger.

Lifting one shoulder just enough for the gesture to be caught by Michael, Hermione keeps her attention primarily on the wand maker. Likely a former apprentice to a recently retired one, and possibly still learning from his master in the art. But good enough, as he brings a trio of boxes to start from, handing the first wand to Michael.

"Hawthorne and unicorn tail hair, twelve inches." He watches Michael closely, waiting for him to wave the wand.

Magic is one thing; unicorns are something else entirely.  Still, Michael reaches for the proffered wand.  As soon as his hand closes around it, though, he wants to put it down.  It just doesn't *feel* right.

"I don't think this one will do it," he says, putting it back in the box.

"Of course, of course, here, try this one. Walnut and dragon heart-string, fourteen inches, very good for hexes and jinxes." And other Dark Arts, Hermione can easily read into the man's eager sales pitch. She rather thinks that one isn't going to be the best, either.

"No," Michael says, after a moment.  It's closer to being right than the last one, but not close enough.  He wants to ask if this is really necessary, but he knows that will blow his cover.

"Ah, yes." The wand-maker doesn't even offer the third one, moving the boxes off the table, and going into the back to bring out two more. "Blackthorn and thestral hair, twelve inches, good for defensive work and dueling." He offers the box to Michael with another smile, watching him eagerly. Hoping, no doubt, that he has it right this time.

Michael picks up the wand - and nearly drops it in surprise as a shower of sparks shoots from the tip.  Once he's over his initial shock, though, he can't help nodding in satisfaction.  This one feels as right as the others had felt wrong - as if he's regained a piece of himself he hadn't realized was missing.

The smug smile on the wand-maker's face makes Hermione want to roll her eyes, but there is some pride in finding the right wand for the wizard, so she merely smiles instead, and reaches into her purse for galleons.

"See, we won't even have to go home to find you a new wand after all." She counts out the galleons after the wand-maker names the price for the wand, a little more than at Ollivander's, but still reasonable. "Now, you promised me dinner at someplace nice tonight, rather than insisting upon staying in."

"Then, since you were right, you pick the restaurant."  Michael knows some good ones, but they're all the normal sort, and he doubts that's what Hermione had in mind.  He nods at the shopkeeper, but doesn't thank him, as it would be out of character, and slips his wand into the one pocket that doesn't already have a weapon in it.

Hermione gives a little sniff before swaaning out of the shop, and keeping a decorous pace as she leads the way to what she's been given to understand is a very expensive restaurant, though not one that requires reservations, fortunately. They're ushered to a table in a corner, the waiter making a recommendation of elf-pressed wine that Hermione nods acceptance to.

Even here, though, she can't relax from her role, not yet. A few more hours, and waiting to see if the Russian wizarding authorities are going to come down on her for performing magic on Muggles. Although she has a suspicion they won't, there's no reason to assume that. And she once again reminds herself to be a bit more careful about doing so next time.

Once the waiter is out of earshot, Michael leans forward, lowering his voice.

"Back at the shop - did he really mean dragons and unicorns, or was that just the usual exaggeration to help make a sale?"

"Both exist." Hermione keeps her voice low enough not to carry, a faint smile on her face. "Though unicorns are difficult to catch sight of, or catch in general, and dragons are kept on reserves to protect them as much as to protect people from them."

"Incredible."  Michael leans back in his chair, shaking his head.  "I never would have thought - there's a whole world out there I never even knew existed."  He breaks off as the waiter returns with the wine, and waits until the bottle has been opened and the man has retreated again.  "How did I miss it?" he demands.  "How could I not have known?  How is that possible?"

"International Statute of Secrecy, the use of memory charms, stringent protections on reserves for magical creatures, the ability of magic to allow the duel use of physical space, and the simple human ability to ignore what they don't want to see." Hermione all but ticks the points off on her fingers, reaching for her wine glass, taking a small sip. "The wizarding world in general, particularly in more developed countries, has a strict isolationist policy."

"And what about people like me?"  Michael asks.  "You said it was dangerous to do magic the way I've been doing it - do you just let us wander around until we stumble across a trained wizard, or kill ourselves by accident?  It doesn't sound like a good way to do things, especially since you're worried about exposure.  Not everyone is as habitually secretive as I am."

Hermione pressed her lips together, anger flashing in her eyes a moment. It would seem, she's certain, that she was angry at Michael to outside eyes, though at the moment, she's more angry on his behalf. "Usually, those who are like you - and like me, incidentally - are identified at a young age, and are given a magical education in concert with those born to magical parents. That you were not is either incompetence or malice, and I haven't enough familiarity with the appropriate authorities to determine which."

"Malice?"  Michael lifts an eyebrow.  "I was ten the first time I did something I couldn't explain."  He's still not entirely comfortable with calling what he does magic.  "I'm pretty good at making enemies, but I didn't start that early."  Unless his dad counts - but Michael can't imagine that his father would have been able to interfere with magic, not when he could barely manage to stay sober.

"You wouldn't have had to make an enemy. There are those who feel that those who do not have magical parents are inferior." Hermione's voice, though low, is hard. She hates this part of the magical world, the creeping hatred and bigotry that is perpetuated, in many ways, by the same measures that protect magical creatures and wizards from exploitation from the wider world. "That sort wouldn't have a qualm about abandoning a Muggle-born child to the risks of uncontrolled and untrained magic."

That they were pretending to be precisely that sort is something she omits, but hopes that she's given Michael enough clues to figure it out. "It's also not exactly a subject for polite conversation. Embarrassment on the part of those who claim to be more progressive, a distaste for the subject matter by the higher echelons of pure blood society."

"It's more than just prejudice, isn't it?" Michael asks softly.  It's more an instinctive leap than anything else, but it would explain why she reacts like she's seen combat, and why someone her age knows loss so intimately.

"They hunt Muggles for sport." The way Hermione is leaning forward, and the cold fury in her face is the sort to keep a discrete waiter looking for a decent tip just out of earshot, but where one of them can see him when they're done their argument. Even if it isn't truly an argument in this case.

"Voldemort and his followers murdered Muggle-borns and their families, along with anyone who sympathized or had any respect for Muggles. Those he didn't murder, he had arrested by his Ministry, tried for stealing magic, and those who were lucky enough not to be imprisoned had their wands snapped and every scrap of money they ever made stripped from them, and then were evicted from the wizarding world. Left to fend for themselves without any resources in a world they'd left behind."

She drew a deep breath, struggling to get her temper under control. "I lost my parents, my best mentors, and my best friends to that prejudice. It's a pervasive evil that poisons minds and souls, and creates monsters."

The litany is enough to make Michael angry on her behalf - on the behalf of everyone she's mentioned.

"What happened to Voldemort?  You're not the sort to be here if he was still running around loose."  He knows that much just from their brief acquaintance.

"He's very, very dead." Hermione manages to hide bitter triumph behind a mask of a poisonously sweet smile. "He had split his soul to ensure he couldn't stay dead. And then neglected to think about how someone might go about hunting those down to ensure he stayed dead when they killed him."

And although they'd been certain they got them all before Harry faced Voldemort at the end, save for Harry himself, she'd hunted for several years after Voldemort's fall to ensure the absolute destruction of Voldemort's soul had indeed been accomplished. Making sure the deaths of those she held dearest weren't a worthless sacrifice.

"That's a pity," Michael says.  "He sounds like someone I'd have liked to shoot in the face a few times."  Every so often, the more violent aspects of his job appeal to him more strongly than they usually do. "What happened to his followers?"

"Most of them are imprisoned at Azkaban. A couple managed to get off on mitigating circumstances or with light punishments because of politics. Quite a few didn't survive to see prison." Hermione shrugs, slowly shutting the anger that is the major part of what she still feels regarding that whole period and the people she fought back into the box where it belongs. "Shall we let the waiter come to take our orders, or continue to let him believe we're having a quarrel?"

Michael glances at the waiter.  "We should probably order."  There doesn't seem to be any reason to make her talk any further about what is clearly a painful topic, not when everyone who needs dealing with appears to have been taken care of.

Hermione beckons the waiter over, the same sweet and vicious smile on her face as earlier as she orders for them both. Giving the waiter the impression the fight was over what to order, and who had the choice in doing so. The food she does order is simple enough, as she doesn't feel all that hungry after bringing up memories of the war against Voldemort. Just enough to make sure the wine doesn't go to her head, and to keep her on her feet.

Once the waiter has moved off again, Michael leans back slightly in his chair. It makes him look relaxed, which he never is, and sometimes that can be enough to keep from attracting attention.

"So what's next? That mess you saw tonight means that my task here is done, and I have a couple of weeks' leave time coming to me." Dan has been begging him to take it, afraid that Michael will get burned out, but what his handler has failed to realize is that Michael thrives on this sort of work. 

"Now that you've a wand, I teach you as much as I can about magic, starting with the most useful spells - shielding and warding, Apparating and stunners. Both the practical applications thereof and the theory behind them." Hermione idly lifts her glass, tilting it to touch the wine to her lips for a moment before setting it down without really taking a sip. "I don't think we ought to stay in Russia while doing so, though, despite the fact they haven't come down on me about using magic on Muggles yet."

"I'd prefer not to stay here in any case," Michael admits dryly. "The Russian government has quite a few reasons not to like me very much, and I'd rather they not get their hands on me." Michael smiles faintly. "The USSR may be dead, but the present government has much the same attitude towards people in my line of work."

"One that I imagine I wouldn't appreciate having to break you out of." Hermione allows herself the barest curve of her lips in approximation of a smile. Nothing like the expression that would have been on her face if she'd been herself. For now, though, it will have to serve, until she can stop being the aristocrat.

"You wouldn't appreciate it, but I certainly would." Michael smiles back at her with the same reserve. "Still, I'd rather the situation not arise, so going elsewhere sounds like an excellent idea. Do you have any preferences as for where to go?"

"My face is far too familiar in Britain to have any sense of privacy there." There's a bitterness tinging the words, a hint of grief hiding in her eyes that she refuses to allow free rein. "Most places in Europe, though, I've some sense of anonmity - not as much in France, but the rest of the continent should be safe enough. If you've a preference as to location?"

Michael shrugs. He's curious as to what made Hermione famous in Britain, but isn't sure he should pry. "Greece?" he suggests. It's one of the few countries in which he hasn't worked, and the government there has the same laid back attitude as do the people. "It's got a nice climate, great beaches, and little governmental supervison." He breaks off as the waiter approaches, tray in hand, and waits until their food has been deposited on the table and the waiter is once again out of earshot before continuing -- and giving in to his curiosity. 

"If you don't mind my asking -- why are you so well-known in Britain? If you'd rather not tell me, you don't have to." If she doesn't tell him, he'll just find out the long way.

Hermione presses her lips together, deliberately picking a morsel of her food out, and eating it before she answers, her tone remarkably steady. "Because I survived where my friend didn't. He was the hero, I was the faithful companion. And possibly the romantic interest, depending on whose opinion you want to ask."

Michael has the feeling that there's a deep, dark pit behind those words. He has stories like that too, and friends who went home in flag-draped coffins, or never went home at all. The almost inaudible traces of pain in her voice are concealing agony, if Michael is any judge -- and he is. He sees that pain in the mirror sometimes, and feels it constantly. 

"What if I asked you?" He keeps his voice gentle, his gaze steady. "I always find second-hand accounts to be mostly worthless."

"He was my best friend." Hermione takes another bite, and a sip of wine before adding, "Both of them were. There was never a chance for anything more, no matter how I sometimes wish there had been. No two of us would have been as good together, though, as all three of us. We balanced each other out."

"I've had friends like that." There are reasons he prefers to work alone. It's hard to risk a friend's life, and even harder to watch him lose it.

"I'm sorry that you lost them," he tells her, and means it deeply. "If you don't mind telling me -- what happened to them?" He very much doubts it was something as simple as a car accident.

"One was the hero destined to defeat the Dark Lord." Hermione lets out a small, breathy huff of bitter laughter. "Nothing ever said he'd live through the experience, though we all hoped he would. The other was just a boy in love with his best friends and protective of his baby sister. He got in the way of one too many curses, and he never woke up again. Just. Slipped away."

Michael closes his eyes for a brief moment before looking at Hermione again. "I'm sorry," he says again, knowing how inadequate it is. Reaching across the table, he puts a hand over one of hers, and squeezes gently before letting go. He's not usually one for physical gestures, but on this occasion he can't help feeling that it's merited. "I know how hard it is to lose friends."

Hermione gives him a small smile, wishing she dared allow more of herself through, but that would give away the game too soon. "Thank you," she murmurs, before picking at her food a moment to find another choice morsel. And she is glad for the support, though it's been years since Harry and Ron died, particularly since he's not doing so simply because she's the surviving member of the Golden Trio. Not playing it up to get close to a heroine, or to take advantage of her.

Michael nods in reply. A few minutes pass in silence, both of them occupied with their own thoughts, before he speaks again.

"The Dark Lord - did your friend manage to defeat him?" he asks, hoping she won't think he's trying to pry. The desire to know things has always been a large part of his personality, and fifteen-odd years as a spy have only made it worse.

"Yes," Hermione says simply, a brief memory flashing across her mind of how Harry had brought down Voldemort with the same vicious curse that had cost him his parents when he was an infant, had cost him more than one loved one.

"Good." Michael takes another bite. He wants to know how long ago all of it had gone on, but can't help feeling that he's asked enough questions on what is plainly a painful subject for her. He pushes his plate away instead, and looks at Hermione. He understands now at least part of why there's such such sorrow in her face, and why she conceals it so very well.

Glancing at her own plate, Hermione pushes it away with a little sniff, almost disdainful. "We ought to leave soon, and return to the hotel - or leave altogether." They'll have to take a port-key, or the train, as she's never been to Greece, and so wouldn't know where she's going to Apparate. "There ought to be at least one overnight train we can still purchase tickets for."

"There is," Michael confirms. He smiles a little sheepishly. "I make a habit of memorizing train schedules, and anything else that might be important if I have to make a quick getaway. Anyone in my profession who doesn't, generally won't last very long." It's a habit that's saved him five or six times. Once, he'd cut it so close that he'd seen his would-be captors on the platform as his train pulled away from the station. "There's one that leaves in an hour and..." he glances at his watch, "thirty-five minutes, and a second half an hour after that. We can take either one, so far as I'm concerned."

"The one that leaves sooner, I think. And a very brief stop either at the hotel, or somewhere with a public restroom - I know a place I can Apparate us into - that we can change in. We would be, after all, very conspicuous in our current attire." Hermione signals the waiter, reaching into her purse for a small bag of galleons that she'd meant to use for buying something utterly luxurious and pointless, and will provide a generous tip as well as covering the expense of the meal. Waiting until he's stepped away before standing, and gesturing imperiously for Michael to accompany her, keeping in character until they can get safely away.

Michael gets up and follows her, impressed all over again by her fieldcraft. CIA, NSA, any agency at all, would snatch her up in a heartbeat. He's more impressed by the fact that she has to have picked it up on her own.

Once they're outside, Hermione tucks her hand into Michael's arm again, idly wandering down the street, still window-shopping to all appearences, until they reach one of the areas that are designated Apparating points, kept free of unexpected pedestrians by subtle wards. "Hold on," she murmurs, tightening her grip on Michael's arm as she spins them, Apparating into the women's loo of a museum that's closed for the night. "We shouldn't have any interruptions here while we change, though I don't want to take long."

The spell, and moving from one place to another leaves Michael a little dizzy, and with a head full of plans. If this is something he can learn how to do, it will provide him with an advantage that no one else will be able to equal.

Hermione sets her purse on the edge of a sink, reaching in for Michael's discarded clothing from earlier, and a Muggle outfit of her own. "I can make those a bit better fitting, if you'd rather, or we can purchase more once we're on to Greece."

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2011.


End file.
